


like it's got some disease

by nagia



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: F/M, Selina/Not Getting Her Knees Broken By The Mob, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/nagia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She and Jen keep up polite fictions: Selina pretends the deal with Maroni about their payoffs doesn't mean she fucks Maroni and a few people he tells her to. Jen pretends it isn't obvious that it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

But what starts with desire can turn into need  
The chest gets all tight like it's got some disease  
What burns in the fire just ends up as coals  
What floats on the water can sink like a stone  
\-- Mirah, "Body Below"

* * *

Selina peels the shirt off, ignores the way it sticks to her skin. No good thinking about what makes cotton stick like that; maybe she sweated, maybe she bled, what does it even matter? She tosses the shirt into the tiny garbage can under the sink, then twists so she can look at her her back in the mirror, over her bony shoulders.

This one gouged finger-marks from her shoulderblades on down. Her mouth is dark red, lower lip thicker than usual thanks to the clot of dried blood, and her eyes look dark and wide.

She curls her lip at herself and thinks: Just keep doing what you have to. They'll let you go eventually.

* * *

He's in a double-breasted suit, that fits him perfectly. Each gray thread — some charcoal, some lighter — is so perfect she knows that she doesn't want to know how much it cost him. The wallet in her hands is deep brown leather, soft as butter, and thick with paper and plastic.

Selina smiles up at him.

His hand closes around Selina's wrist.

"We both got problems, little girl," he tells her. "You don't want a whole new one, you're gonna get in that car and help me with mine."

Sixteen is way too young to die. She gets in the car.

* * *

It does matter if she was sweating or bleeding.

If she was bleeding, it's going to cost him. It'll cost him everything someday. She'll make sure of it.

She doesn't want to think about what it might mean if she was sweating.

* * *

Things Selina Kyle wishes she didn't know about Sal Maroni: his hands are always clean. He keeps a small handgun hidden under every suit jacket. He's uncircumcised. He takes a lot of antacids, always has a roll of Tums in his right pockets.

He likes her to blow him while he takes important phone calls.

He especially likes her to blow him while he's talking to his mother-in-law. She doesn't know what that's about. She doesn't want to.

* * *

Maroni passes her off to the bank guy at a party. She learns his name, but it just gets lost in her thinking: Where does _this_ asshole work, a bank?

"He runs one of our banks," Maroni says. He pats her ass, almost fondly. "And you're gonna be nice to him. If he finds anything missing..."

Standard threat. Selina almost doesn't pay any attention.


	2. Chapter 2

The limo slows and a distinguished-looking older man leans his head out. "Hey, little girl. Want a ride?"

Selina snaps, "Go fuck yourself!"

* * *

Nine years later, she opens the door of a limo, slips within, and asks him, "Give me a ride?"

* * *

Selina tosses the ruined outfit in the trash, bra and all. She hates having to throw out bras — it feels like throwing wads of cash in the garbage — but there is no fucking way she's keeping this one. She'd pitch the shoes, too, but she has to give them back to Maroni's friend, the doctor.

He had the most extraordinary eyes. Such a clear, beautiful blue.

Should she hate herself for thinking he was kind of gorgeous, for someone with obvious mob connections and who didn't mind extorting sex from — 

Nevermind. Not worth thinking about. More important: she lost some time; she's not even sure how much. And even though it was only four hours, it felt more like four days and she spent way too much of it screaming.

If she ever hears the words, _You're really quite pretty when you're afraid_ ever again, she might just start screaming again right then and there. She's not sure she'd be able to stop.

* * *

She and Jen keep up polite fictions:

Selina pretends the deal with Maroni about their payoffs doesn't mean she fucks Maroni and a few people he tells her to. Jen pretends it isn't obvious that it does.

Selina pretends she comes home sometimes in rumpled clothes because she was running, or because it was all part of the stealing. Jen pretends to believe her.

Jen pretends that none of it matters anyway. Selina does, too.

* * *

Two weeks before the Joker hits this particular mob bank, the bank guy takes her in after hours. He laughs at the way she looks up at the cameras.

"Don't worry about those, sweetheart. I run the place," he says, like she's worried about what will happen to _him_ if somebody gets hold of that footage.

She turns to look at him. He pats the desk and smiles, one of those tight-lipped, pointed smiles she's always tempted to remove by way of fist to the crotch.

But Selina knows the drill. She shucks everything but the shoes (what _is_ it with Maroni's cronies and high heels?) and gives a little turn for the cameras. Might as well, since she's apparently going to add "unintentional internet porn star" to her long list of misdeeds.

She bends over the desk, flexes into her favorite stretch for a moment, and then looks over her shoulder at him.

He doesn't strip. That's probably a favor, although he's broad-shouldered and dark-eyed and, surprisingly, lacks the pencil-pusher paunch. Maybe it's a shame the internet won't get to see what he hides underneath his suit and tie all the time.

He starts with her legs. His fingers wander the top of her foot, not far from her toes, and then he trails his hands up her ankle. Smooths his palm along her calf, itches his nails against her thigh. He tugs her leg a little when he gets close to her cunt, so she widens her stance.

After that he's playing with her clit, rubbing his thumb in slow lazy circles while his other hand skims along the undersides of her breasts. He squeezes her breast lightly, flicking his fingers over the nipple.

She doesn't bother trying to hold in a gasp when he slides two fingers into her.

The touch on her clit gets a little faster, a little rougher. Maybe she's fucked up, but if she didn't basically _have_ to be here, it'd be just the way she likes it. Fast and rough and a little filthy.

He pinches her nipple, but leaves her only a second to register the minor pain before he slips a third finger inside her. It's sudden, and even though she's starting to get slick she still winds up making another wheezy gasping noise.

"That's my good, pretty girl," the bank guy says, and lets go of her breast so he can bury his hand in her hair. He tugs her head back and sucks on her earlobe.

Selina doesn't tell him that she's not his anything, and what she does on a regular basis usually gets the "bad girl" label.

Then he pulls his hand out of her cunt and shoves her just a little farther over the desk. She lies there, a little dizzy from the sudden change.

Then she hears him unzip.

He leans over her, presses his mouth so close to her earlobe he's practically tonguing her cheek. Even through the shirt and tie, he's burning hot against her skin. 

"Do you want it?"

No. "Yes."

"Say it."

"I want it. God, I want it. Come on, baby, give it to me." (If he believes that, he is too dumb to live. She works hard to believe it, herself.)

And then the head of his cock is pushing against her, into her. She pushes back and fakes a throaty moan.

She's not quite faking when he grips her hips hard enough to bruise. She jerks her hips forward and he moves too, pounds into her hard and fast. It hurts and she can feel her body lodging protests despite the slickness of her cunt and the fast-building, throbbing tension in the pit of her stomach.

He keeps going, his shirt dry and scratchy against the bare skin of her back. She braces more weight on her forearms and focuses on keeping her hips moving. Forward, backward; forward, backward; forward, backward, _squeeze_ and oh god —

He kisses the junction between her neck and shoulder when he finishes.

* * *

Bastard didn't even take the time to roll on a condom. She buys a morning after pill and almost cries when she sells his Patek Philippe for only seven hundred thousand, which a quick Google reveals is easily half its worth. It's hormones, she tells herself, not frustration at how _little_ that money's going to help in the scheme ofthings.

He dies twelve days later with bullets in his knees and a grenade full of mustard gas in his mouth. Joker's personal touch, apparently.

She doesn't have to Google mustard gas. She doesn't pretend to be sorry when she next sees Maroni.

Maroni's dead before the year is out. Car crash. Certain underworld types say a half-burned man walked out of the wreckage flipping a coin, but that's a crock of shit she doesn't buy.

If Maroni didn't die, he has the grace to keep his tax dodge convincing.


End file.
